Deceiver not the silence for you, my boy
by ultraviolet9a
Summary: “You wanna know how the deal will go down? This is how the deal will go down. My way. Ma’am.” Bobbyfic, mostly, spoilers for finale of season 2.


**Deceiver (not the silence for you, my boy)**

* * *

_Don't try and con a conman. __-Bobby Singer_

_It is double pleasure to deceive the deceiver. __-Niccolo Machiavelli_

_Waste not, want not. -Proverb_

* * *

Usually it's this kind most people are afraid of: the kind that hold blades in their eyes (like John), that carry too pure a cause (like Dean), that are too smart and too large somehow (like Sam). 

Well. If you ask me, most people got it dead wrong. The people to be feared most? Are the ones you don't see coming: the quiet ones.

Like Bobby.

* * *

All it takes is a work bench (press, calliper, scale, chamfer, dies, tumbler), some basics (powder, primer, case, bullet) and a lot of common sense. Which, as you and me and Bobby Singer know, isn't that common at all.

* * *

After all hell broke loose, Bobby got back. Somebody had to fix the rail tracks and salt and burn the bodies. He has no idea why he does it and he sure as hell doesn't want to touch the dead bastard, but a man's got to do what a man's got to do. John knew that. Bobby owes him that.

At first he's thinking, maybe it could become some sort of trophy, something that Sam will hang onto when/if Dean finally goes, but then…_then_…well. Common sense.

It comes to him easily. He can almost hear his mama's voice saying _Waste not, want not, Bobby_. The words echo around his mind with a life of their own and he's thinking, why the hell not? He's got a junk yard for fuck's sake. A _scrap_ yard. Spends most of his time surrounded by metal others consider useless. But nothing is useless. This, Bobby knows.

Everything has a purpose. Or holds a purpose. Or serves a purpose. You catch my drift.

And what Bobby does, as the chill of dawn leaves small drops on his beard, and the fire consuming what was once Jake and the Demon is reflected in his eyes, is hope.

Hope that some of the magic has stayed. But even if it hasn't…well. He's a conman. That's what he's really counting on. That, and common sense. But I've said that already.

* * *

"Give me the Colt, Dean," Bobby says. He's worked in isolation for a couple of days, grumping whenever Dean asked him what the hell he was doing. He's done his best, adding charms and blessings. And he's thinking, _I'll be damned. It might just work._

"Why?" Dean asks. There's something loose about him, something that hasn't caught up with future reality yet.

"Do you trust me, boy?"

Now Dean is eyeing him through pure Winchester eyes. His voice is slow.

"Are you going to do something stupid, Bobby, or are you afraid that I am? Or Sam, after I'm gone?"

Bobby doesn't flinch. Knows exactly which word to use.

"Do you trust me, _son_?"

And he can see the hesitation and the tenderness and the greed, the _need_ for family in Dean's face.

"With my life," Dean quietly replies.

He's closer to the truth than he thinks.

He walks out, and when he gets back the Colt is right and true in his palm, like in that cowboy cemetery, and for a moment Bobby can still see the magic. Then the Colt is in his own hand. And it's just a gun again.

But that doesn't matter either. What matters is this: if you want to fuck someone up, give him enough truth to be uncertain. Give him enough truth to believe the lies you'll serve. And he'll believe you.

Especially if you're a quiet one.

* * *

It's one shot. Bobby knows it: he's got only. one. shot. Somehow it's apt. And ah well. If he dies along the way…it's proper. It's the young that should bury the old, not the other way round. And he's burnt too many young, too many _good_ people already. 

And he loves his boys.

* * *

Which brings us to the most important thing: the crossroad. 

Bobby is waiting. Again. At a dawn that is so early, it could still qualify for night. Seems somehow right. A bit of dust drifts in the wind, caught in the lights of his tow-truck, parked a few feet away.

Rumsfeld sits quietly inside. Damn boy wouldn't stop barking as Bobby was about to leave, and he couldn't afford to have the boys wake up. Besides, Rumsfeld survived Meg. Damn good omen, if you ask Bobby. Damn good lucky charm, if you ask me.

The crossroad demon wears a green dress. It makes her red hair stand out like fire in the artificial light and makes Bobby wonder if this demon can read minds, because he always had a thing for redheads.

"Well, well, well," she (which is _it_, but looks like a _she_, so a _she_ it is, Bobby decides) says. "If it ain't Bobby Singer, patron saint of the Winchesters. You're here in vain, old man. You got nothing I want."

Rumsfeld's growl is so loud that the car windows are almost vibrating.

She looks over, scoffs.

"You brought your mutt? Some back-up, old man."

"Well, ma'am," Bobby says half-shrugging as his right arm reaches to the small of his back casually. "You got your hell mutts and I got mine."

"What_ever_. Why'd you call me? There's nothing you can give me to claim Dean Winchester back, you know that, right?"

Bobby doesn't reply. Doesn't even flinch. It's those quiet ones, see.

"Let me guess," she coos. "You got a brilliant plan. Like, maybe luring me into a Devil's Trap? Oh, you're all the same."

"Dean made you fall for it once. He's a smart boy."

"Well, I'm smart too. Ain't falling for that. And, oh, look whose soul I'll own in one year. _Dean's_. So who's the smarter now, huh?"

Her voice turns into a hiss. Good. He can work with rage. Can feed it. Can turn it into fear.

"No devil's trap, ma'am, no. I guess you're too smart for my kind. But I got _this_."

Bobby's arm is in front of him. The Colt catches the receding moonlight like a trap.

"That's the Colt the Winchesters used to kill the son of a bitch," Bobby says. "But I'm sure you know this already, what with being so smart and all that."

"Oh I _know_. They used the last bullet," she says. "Which means that if you came here to threaten me with my life, you're just shooting blanks."

"Well, ma'am," Bobby says without even blinking. "There's such a thing as reloading. You know, recycling the bullets? It's like resurrection, except without breaking the rules. Or selling souls. So. Let's bargain."

* * *

Bargaining isn't the same as conning. At least, shouldn't be. With Bobby? It's one and the same.

* * *

"The bullet is never going to work," she says. 

"I don't see why not," Bobby replies. "A broken cross is still a cross once you weld it back together. A broken salt line is still whole once you pour some more salt on it. And I retrieved all parts. Blessed them. And I got the Colt. It's going to waste you. We _both_ know it."

"Even if that is so, you'll be breaking the deal," she says, a look of triumph on her face. "I told Dean that if he tried to weasel out of it Sam would be nothing but dead meat."

"Exactly. If _Dean_ tried. But Dean's not trying. Dean hasn't got the faintest idea I'm here. I'm the one trying. So if _I_ kill you, I'm thinking that Dean will have kept his side of the bargain. So Sam lives, you die, Dean's free, everybody's happy. Well, everyone who _matters_ at least."

"Cute. You think you're smart," she says. "but if you really believed that, you'd already have pulled the trigger. No, it's not that easy. You've got to choose. If you kill me, Sam's going to die. Nothing you can do about it. If you don't kill me, Dean's going to die. Aw well, Bobby. Too bad you can't strike a deal to your liking."

"Well, ma'am," Bobby grunts, "if that's the case, the way I see it I'm going to lose one of them either way. Might as well kill you along the way."

She laughs. Throws her damn red head back and laughs. It doesn't throw him off. He can see through fake confidence. Hell, he has written the handbook.

"I like you, Bobby. You got balls. So I'm going to do you a favour. You want a deal? I'm going to give you one. You back out now, and I can offer you riches. I can offer you eternity. Women. A life," she says. "Or how about I make you young again? Bring your mama back? So you won't be spending your miserable life all alone, with nothing but your own palm for comfort? I can make the sweetest deal go down for you, Bobby. I can make the loneliness go away. Be smart."

"You wanna know how the deal will go down? This is how the deal will go down. _My_ way. _Ma'am_. Here's the deal: your life for my boys. Whole. Alive. No strings attached. No souls on the table. Or I swear on John's grave, I'll put the bullet right between your pretty eyes."

Time ticks away. They haven't moved. His arm is unwavering. The Colt is still catching moonlight. Rumsfeld is silent. Everything seems silent.

"The bullet is never going to work," she says but there's a slight move of her eyelids, the barest hint of uncertainty just _there_ and Bobby cocks the gun.

"Well, I can always try," he says. "I can afford to be wrong. Can you?"

* * *

It's been a long time since he last kissed a woman, so "It might take me some time to get it all working properly, ma'am," Bobby says. 

"It's just a kiss," she says angrily. "Not fucking."

"Really?" Bobby says feigning surprise. "Could have fooled me. Cuz from where I'm standing? I'd say you're screwed."

* * *

Bobby's standing alone at the crossroad. He wipes at his mouth. Dawn is breaking. He gets back into the car, pets Rumsfeld and downs a gulp of his flask to chase the kiss away (it didn't taste human) and steady his heart. Then he drives all the way back with Rumsfeld's head on his thigh. His leg might go numb, but damn if it isn't comforting. 

He closes the door behind him with a soft click, then walks quietly (he knows to avoid the creaking parts of the floor) to the boys' room. He puts the Colt beside Dean. The bullet is still in it. Dean stirs in his sleep.

"Dad?" he mutters ripped from a dream, but Bobby shushes him back to sleep before he can wake for real. Sammy is asleep on the opposite bed, a book open on his chest, one arm dangling on the floor.

Bobby doesn't wake them. He'll take a shower, brush his teeth, put on some coffee in the pot and lots of bacon and eggs in a pan. Hell, he'll even make pancakes. Let the boys awaken to that, to the smell of normal, the smell of a life to be lived.

And if they get into any more trouble? Well. Bobby's here.

He'll take care of that, too.

Cuz, you and I, we both know it: he's a quiet one.

-The End.

* * *

_Hell is a place where the sun is silent. -Dante_

* * *

_SIDENOTE: This piece is my fanfic karma redemption for writing _Debt_. No, really._

* * *

DISCLAIMER: I do not own them. It's frustrating.

* * *

NOTE1: The glowy misskatieleigh had requested something with Bobby in it. I hope you enjoy this, honey. 

NOTE2: betaed by shiny hiyacynth. She's my Yoda. In a "Help you I can, yes." kind of way. (Except, you know, she's way prettier, uses better syntax, and isn't green. Heh.)


End file.
